


opposites attract & we’re the livin’ proof of that

by kattyshack



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Crushes, Day At The Beach, F/M, Flirting, Fluff, Humor, Jealousy, Mild Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Stuck in Traffic, an abundance of italics, but BELLIGERENT, which btw will be the title of my memoirs at this rate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-11
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-04-24 11:18:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19172197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kattyshack/pseuds/kattyshack
Summary: Between a traffic jam, a nuisance of a family, and an offensively yellow bikini, Theon really doesn’t know how he’s meant to keep control of his completely -uncontrollable- crush on Sansa.(title from “love her,” by the jonas brothers)





	1. the traffic jam

**Author's Note:**

> a/n: DID U KNO... the actual lyric is ‘this’ and not ‘that,’ as if they didn’t have a perfectly good rhyme at their disposal? what’s that about?? who knows who cares here’s a fic (that may wind up more than two chapters, WE’LL SEE, but for now here’s the first):

“You. Are. Driving. Me. Insane.”

Every word is punctuated with the slap of Theon’s hand against the steering wheel, which he hasn’t needed to move in ages, anyway, since they’ve been stuck in traffic for their _entire lives_.

“Am I, Theon?” Sansa’s words drip, all goading and sardonic, from the passenger seat. _“Am I?”_

“Oh my god,” Arya groans from the back. “Just kiss already.”

Theon grinds his teeth and protests — _futilely_ , because he’s full of shit — “I don’t want to kiss her. I want to strangle her.”

“Yeah,” Arya snorts, “with your tongue.”

Sansa’s arms are crossed, all huffy, but she’s smirking. And god damn if that doesn’t just make Theon want to kiss her more — kiss that smug smarmy smirk right off her face.

(And yes, he knows that smug and smarmy and smirk all imply pretty much the same thing, but that’s just how self-satisfied Sansa is.)

(It… sort of turns him on, really.)

(But she’s not to know that.)

He wonders if that’s what she was thinking, too, all those times she’s told him to get that stupid look off _his_ face. Maybe she just wanted to kiss him.

_Or —_

“I told you we should’ve left earlier,” Sansa reminds him, _again_ , and Theon thinks that, no, she doesn’t want to kiss him. She wants to kill him. Slowly, insidiously, she wants to poke and prod at his poor time management skills until he just ups and _dies_ to escape her criticism.

“Oh, _did you_?” he bites back. “And for what, by the way? So we could be a couple cars ahead in this endless traffic jam on our way  _TO HELL_?”

“No need to shout,” Sansa says, prim and proper and completely in control as ever. It drives him mad. “I was only saying.”

Uh-huh. She’s always ‘only saying.’ Like when she tells him that his hair’s a wreck, so then he has to go on and cut it and try however-many products to get it to lay the way she seems to like. Or when she asks which skirt he likes best, and he has to _sit there_ and _watch_ _her_ twirl around in half a dozen different but equally painful-for-him skirts, because she ‘just wants to know’ which one is most suitable for whatever they’re doing that day. Or when she gives him a little once-over that he’s not even sure he’s meant to notice (but then again he probably _is_ , because Sansa’s cheeky like that and she doesn’t care who knows it) and says he looks good, whatever _that’s_ supposed to mean, because Theon’s pretty sure she’s trying to give him a heart attack when she ‘just says’ things like that.

Or like today, when she said it was too nice an afternoon to waste, so they should all pile into Theon’s VW van — because ‘you bought it, let’s actually use it for something other than sleeping off too much to drink in the parking lot at the pub’ — and head to White Harbor.

Theon had agreed, because he’s an _idiot_ , and then Sansa had nicked his aux cord and they’ve been stuck in traffic listening to boy bands for two bloody hours ever since.

If he’s being honest with himself, though, he’s really just annoyed with her because of the bikini. The boy bands are just an excuse to shout out all his frustrations brought upon by that strappy, offensively yellow thing she’s wearing.

Oh, sure, she’s wearing a cover-up. But it’s _sheer_ and clingy and her legs are still bare and right goddamn _there_.

Sure sure sure. Cool cool cool cool cool cool cool.

Theon isn’t equipped to handle this. He smacks Sansa’s thigh, grips it, and yells incoherent nonsense at the fathomless line of traffic ahead, all the while bouncing impatiently in his seat.

Sansa snorts, much like her sister and yet somehow infinitely more attractive; but that’s just because Theon’s obsessed with her, probably.

“I filmed that,” Arya informs him. “Gonna show Robb hard evidence of you feeling up Sansa’s legs.”

“Piss off,” Theon grumbles.

Thank the gods Robb pulled the weekend shifts this schedule. Between Sansa, Arya, Bran, Rickon, and Gendry — though to be fair, Gendry’s not actually done anything, but _still_ — he’s got enough problems as it is. The last thing he needs is Robb on his arse because Theon’s got a crush on Sansa.

Big deal! Who cares??

Fucking overprotective, asinine, dramo ho Robb Stark, that’s who.

“You really should have got him before we left, too,” Rickon supplies, eyes glued to whatever game he’s playing on his phone. “Kept looking at her — _you know_.”

Arya cackles and Sansa looks to Theon. “Looking at my _what_ , hm?”

“Your incredibly fat head,” he lies, because he’d rather insult her than admit he was staring at her tits.

What good would that do anybody? Theon’s got half a mind to order Rickon to do a tuck-and-roll right out of the van for snitching, but that’s useless, too, since they’re doing little more than idling. He supposes he’ll have to settle on hitting him in the face with that overly-inflated beach ball Arya tends to wield like a weapon.

Now he _really_ can’t wait for traffic to let up.

“I knew we’d get stuck on the Kingsroad,” Bran sighs, all stoic and _ho-hum_ -know-it-all.

“Yeah?” Theon’s hand is still on Sansa’s leg, but at least there’s someone in the car who’s not harping on about it. “Who told you that? Your omniscient psychic powers?”

“Try the traffic report, smartass.”

“Hey-ooooh!” Arya whoops. Gendry high-fives her.

“Honestly.” Bran goes on, “let me out now, I could wheel myself there in my chair faster than we’re going now.”

“That’s not _my_ damn fault,” Theon protests. And even though Sansa smooths a soothing hand over his on her leg, he places the blame on her. “This was all Sansa’s idea.”

To her credit, she only rolls her eyes and squeezes his hand a little tighter. Because she does that, too, along with all her ‘just saying’ — she makes him feel better, when the pressure and the anxiety and the whatever-else starts to become too much. She humors him, indulges him; she makes it all go away.

She’s fucking unbelievable, honestly. In the most incredible sort of way.

Is it any wonder, really, that he’s so _agitated_? Like. Christ. What’s he supposed to do with this? _Not_ fall madly, wildly, totally in love with her?

HA.

Bullshit.

“I stand by my choice,” Sansa replies idly. When Theon tilts his gaze to meet hers, she’s smiling like those words mean something more than simply what they sound like.

But then she turns up the volume on her ‘Boy Bands Save Lives’ playlist and she laughs and _laughs_ , and Theon thinks that maybe he was reading too much into it, after all.

She keeps holding his hand, though. So that’s… something. 

Maybe.

Whatever. He rubs his thumb alongside hers. He’ll take it.


	2. the offensively yellow bikini

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: who was i kidding this fic’s gonna be like four chapters
> 
> do i even like this one?? who knows probably not bc yeah i hate it and it’s been a terrible day here’s hoping this chapter isn’t half that bad tho

They do eventually, mercifully, make it to White Harbor without much further to-do in the ensuing extra forty-five minutes it takes to reach their destination.

The first thing Theon does is bounce the beach ball from Arya’s grip and chuck it at Rickon’s face. He’s utterly nonplussed and chucks it right back. Theon is markedly _less_ nonplussed, and has to nurse the violent red spot on his forehead with one of the cans of beer from the icebox.

“I knew that was going to happen,” Bran says, the offending beach ball now in his lap and a mischievous little smile on his face.

Before Theon can so much as threaten to bury him in the sand, Arya hops on the back of his wheelchair and they speed off, Rickon and Gendry close behind, leaving nothing but laughter and chatter in their wake. It’s only Theon, Sansa, and the hot metal of the VW left in the carpark. There’s a dozen other cars and all there, too, but he’s not really thinking about anything other than the scent of Sansa’s coconut sunscreen.

He needs a distraction, and thankfully he sort of has one.

“And they left us to carry all this shit,” Theon says, as he looks over the piles of bags and coolers in the back of his van, and decidedly _does not_ think about all the aloe vera Sansa will need despite the sunscreen, what with that delicate pale skin of hers and… _Fuck._ “Why did we bring them again?”

_Because you can’t be trusted to be alone with her, probably. It s been ten seconds and already just look at yourself. Also, see: every sex dream you’ve ever had._

Wait.

No.

He can’t think about that right now.

He’s wearing swim trunks, for fuck’s sake. She’ll _know_.

Sansa slides her sunglasses from her hair to the bridge of her nose and reminds him why they brought the others along: “Gas money.”

“Right.” He huffs, resigned to the task ahead. “Well, you ready to be impressed by the effortless manly strength it’ll take me to carry all this in one trip?”

“Got my smelling salts right here.” Sansa pats the straw bag slung over her shoulder. “Woo me, Greyjoy.”

Oh, he’d _like_ to, god damn it. Thinking about it makes him nervous, though, clammy hands and all that, and anyway Sansa’s not going to let him carry everything himself. She’s much too polite, even when she is trying to murder him with boy bands and yellow bikinis and just her general Sansa-self.

And then — _and then_ , as if Theon’s not fucked himself over enough for one day — she takes off the cover-up.

They’re near the shore when it happens, so that the crash of the waves is almost enough to stifle the rapid raucous drum solo happening in his head. They’d laid out the towels, the folding chairs, stuck the umbrella in the ground, and Theon had just popped the tab on a beer when Sansa starts stripping in front of him.

Okay, so she’s not _stripping_ , but… different means, same end, Theon still wants to throw her down in the sand and have his way with her.

That bikini is just. _Yellow._ Outrageously, outlandishly, unthinkably, offensively yellow.

It’s not a bad yellow. It’s just _so_ yellow.

Is he even supposed to be able to look away from it, from her, or had she chosen it intentionally to torture him?

Who does she think she is?? _Honestly._ Standing there, miles of naked skin on display, saved only from sunburn and freckling by scraps of bright yellow that are modest enough to keep Theon guessing, yet far from it enough to make him sweat?

Why is she _doing this_ to him? He is an okay person, or at least he has been significantly better the past few years than he’d been in the halcyon-due-to-sheer-stupidity days of his early twenties. He doesn’t deserve this.

Sansa Stark in a yellow bikini is the worst thing that’s ever happened to him.

Or the best.

But also not.

Oh, fuck. He doesn’t know what it is.

All Theon knows for sure is that his beer bottle is poised halfway to his gaping mouth, and now he can’t even  _move_. When Sansa tosses the cover-up aside, she catches the look on his face and gives him a puzzled one in return.

“You alright?” she asks, then starts fluffing her hair as if _that’s_ going to help him.

“Uh.” He blinks, and takes such a hearty swig of beer that most of it dribbles down his chin. Brilliant. “Sure, yeah.”

Theon’s never told such a bald-faced lie in all his life.

He pulls his own shirt over his head, just to relieve some of the heat that’s threatening to engulf him, and maybe to even the score a little, too. Not that it works, because Sansa’s actually got her head on straight so she’s able to think with that rather than a traitorous libido, and she uses those dastardly skills of self-possession to make fun of him.

_“Nice,”_ she says, and whistles appreciatively when he flips her off.

He really ought to jump in the water to cool down, but then Sansa’s applying another layer of sunscreen and it’s not like he wants to miss that.

He’ll go in eventually.

They sit in companionable silence for a time, Sansa in her lounger and Theon on the too-short chair that only Arya fits in properly. It’s not so hard to do, being alone with Sansa, but then he’s not _really_ alone with her, is he? The beach and docks are crowded, and Arya and the boys are never too far off. Theon can’t possibly muck things up too badly like this, as circumstance doesn’t allow him to try anything _to_ muck up in the first place.

“Theon?” Sansa prompts at the half-hour mark. Murmurs, more like, as if she’d dozed off and Theon knows for a fact that she had, because he recognizes the hitch of her breath when she’s napping.

“Yes, love?” he replies, flipping through the magazine he’d nicked from her bag. There’s a bit on page thirty-six about pore-cleansing that he’s particularly interested in.

“Can I tell you something possibly humiliating without you mocking me forever for it?”

That’s certainly got his attention. Theon tosses the magazine aside and looks at her, though it’s difficult to gauge much of anything when she’s got her sunglasses on.

“Since when do I mock you?”

He can’t tell, but he’s sure she rolls her eyes. “Theon.”

“Sansa.”

She props those sunglasses on top of her head and levels him with a look. Theon levels it right back at her.

It’s a struggle of a staring contest, if only because he could drown in the blue of her eyes more assuredly than he could in the ocean in front of them. But still it’s easier to focus than it is to be so tortuously undecided as to which part of that offensive yellow bikini he wants to look at most, which part he likes best.

(All of it, he’s had to concede.)

(But he’d like it much better _off_.)

Before either of them can be the first to look away, the two-for-one beach-ball-projectile-weapon comes soaring towards them, and once again knocks Theon straight in the face.

“Oi! Fuck off, squirt!” He whips it back at Arya, who’d been the one to throw it, but of course she catches it easily, because Theon’s life isn’t embarrassing enough.

“Grab us some waters from the snack bar, would you?” Arya shouts back.

“You didn’t pack any?”

She looks at him like he’s an idiot (which he _is_ , but that’s beside the point). “There wasn’t room after all the beer.”

“Get it yourself!” He really cannot be bothered with this, not when Sansa wants to tell him… something, and she’s still looking at him _like that_.

“I’m busy!” Arya wallops Rickon in the gut with the ball next, as if that proves it. “What are _you_ doing? Staring at Sansa and being generally useless, that’s what. I need to hydrate, Theon!”

“Go drown yourself, then!”

“I’m half-Tully, you _fucking_ numpty.”

He gives up, mostly because the family closest to them is shooting daggers between the shouting match. Yelling at Arya isn’t worth being lectured by a strange middle-aged woman with a boring haircut, so Theon tells Sansa, “Hold that thought, would you, love?”

“I can seldom think of anything else as it is,” Sansa replies drily, but there’s something there that makes Theon think she means it.

He heads to the weathered little hotbox of a building, where a portable fan is blowing wearily to offer some relief, but the girl working it doesn’t seem to mind. Ros is a bloody flirt, she likes to wear as little as possible to help out her tip jar, so she doesn’t care how hot it is. Theon’s pretty sure she only keeps the fan on so it can blow attractively through her hair or whatever.

“Hey, handsome,” Ros greets him, with the same easy-breezy familiarity she’d done when they sort-of dated back in school. He’d never been quite enough for her then, which is why it had only ever been sort-of. That had bothered him at the time but Theon’s long past caring now. “What’s your fancy?”

“The girl I came here with,” he admits, because he _can_ admit it to Ros. “But a couple of waters will do it, thanks.”

“Sansa Stark, right?” Ros nods in the direction he’d come from. She sets a few sweating, sure-to-be lukewarm bottles of water on the counter between them. “Reckon she’s too good for the likes of you, ain’t she?”

“You don’t have to tell me.” Theon peels a few banknotes apart to give her correct change. “I bloody well know, don’t I?”

“Do you?” Ros shrugs as she leans on the sticky countertop. “Well, I say give it a go, anyway. You never know. She’s a good girl, maybe she could teach you a thing or two.”

She winks. Theon snorts. “I’m not tipping you.”

“Boo. Spoil my fun.” Ros is smiling, though, a little quirk of those full pink lips Theon used to care about, but couldn’t manage it now even if he wanted to. His head’s too full of someone else. “Just give it a shot, won’t you? She’s pretty.”

“I bloody well know that, too.” He drops the bills into her outstretched hand and gathers the bottles. “Thanks, Ros.”

When he returns to their spot on the beach, it’s to find Sansa gone and Arya occupying the lounger instead. She looks dead peaceful, sitting there in her comically oversized, heart-shaped sunglasses (that were Robb’s favourites before she nicked them once when he annoyed her, and now she wears them like a badge of honor), one beer in each hand as she takes swigs in turns. Theon’s sure that works for Gendry in all sorts of ways, but Arya’s not exactly the Stark sister he was looking for. Like, ever. She’s just some damn goblin child who insists on taking the piss _all_ _the time_ , which Theon might admire if he weren’t so often the object of her ire.

Which he is now, apparently, as she drawls, “Hello, stupid arse.”

“What’d you do with Sansa?”

“I resent the implication that I would ever do anything to harm my angel,” Arya retorts, much less cool drawl now as she all but gnashes her teeth at him. She sets one of her beers aside to snatch a water bottle from him, only to smack him with it. “What did _you_ do, is a better question?”

“What _did_ I do?” Theon wants to know, because he genuinely has no idea.

“You can’t spend all morning flirting with Sansa and then turn around and do the same to your ex-girlfriend.” Arya smacks him again, so hard that he yelps this time. “She’s upset.”

There’s a record scratch in his brain, and then —

_WHAT._

Theon blinks, several times, as if that’s going to help him figure out what the hell’s just happened. “Turn around and do what with who, now?”

“Fuck off.”

“I wasn’t flirting with anybody else,” he defends himself as it all begins to catch up to him. He doesn’t know how, but he could chalk it up to survival instinct. “Least of all Ros. I was talking to her about Sansa, if you must fucking know.”

That’s good enough for Arya, who’s never tolerated liars and could always pick them up at the first, slightest untruth. Theon might be full of shit, but not about Sansa — never about Sansa. Arya knows that, probably better than anyone.

(Bran might know, too, but Bran’s a fuckin’ freak so Theon’s not counting him.)

“Good.” She jerks her head towards the end of the nearest dock, where Sansa’s sitting with her back to them, her toes in the tide. “Now go tell Sansa that.”

He doesn’t move just yet. He’s too busy looking at her and… feeling… _things_. One strap of her swimsuit — that god damn yellow thing that he loves and he _hates_ because he loves it _so much_ — is all twisted up, so Theon can see the sunburn forming around it. Maybe it’s that, or maybe it’s this odd sense of guilt, or maybe it’s both that’s knotting up his gut, but whatever it is, he wants to make it stop. 

“Does she want to talk to me?”

“She didn’t fuck off because she hates you or whatever other stupid thing you might be worried about. She got upset, then she got embarrassed that she was overreacting, so she needed a minute,” Arya informs him. “So yeah, she’ll talk to you. You just gotta get past all her self-esteem issues first. Which, like, I know you don’t think she has, but she does, big time. Reckon that’s why the two of you are so fucking insufferably in love with each other. You both, like, _get it_.”

Sometimes Theon really detests that Arya’s got a psychology degree. She knows too much.

Perhaps he should be thanking her, he considers as he finally gets to it, and the old wood of the dock creaks beneath his feet. But he’s got other things on his mind at present. Other people. _One_ ‘other people.’

_Sansa_ ‘other people.’

_That doesn’t even make sense_ , some heretofore unutilized rational part of Theon’s mind points out. But that bit of his brain’s remained unutilized for a reason, and he’s not going to start bothering with it now. What’s the point?

Because, rational or otherwise, Sansa Stark is just several paces ahead of him, in nothing but an offensively yellow bikini and a probably sour mood; and gods know, Theon doesn’t need anything more than that.


	3. the completely uncontrollable crush

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: special shoutout to shruti, who linked me to THE BEST THE ULTIMATE ICONIC beach bops playlist, which got me through this chapter

To say that this day had gotten out of hand — introspective and overwrought and all the rest — would be an understatement. But that’s… fine. It’s _fine_. It’s _going to be_ fine. After all, Theon hadn’t subjected himself to half a dozen panic attacks and all that self-reflection for nothing, did he?

No, he absolutely did not.

So, when he reaches the end of the dock where she’s sitting, he leans in and blows such an obscene raspberry in Sansa’s ear that she leaps to her feet, and smacks him in the forehead as if on instinct.

That shouldn’t be such a turn-on for him but, well, it’s _Sansa_ , so he gives himself a pass.

“What the _hell_ , Theon?” she snaps, but he doesn’t mind it. Sansa never swears, so when she does it means you really got her to _feel_ _something_ that she’s too pissed off to examine. She lashes out instead.

He’ll take it, just like he had when she’d held his hand on the drive in. Gladly. And he’ll fix it, too.

“What’s the matter?” he asks, though he’s got the answer thanks to Arya. He needs Sansa to admit it before he can do anything about it.

“You spit in my ear!” she says, which is reasonable, Theon supposes, but…

He rolls his eyes, waves her off. “Besides that.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah.” He runs his hand down her arm and feels her shudder. “What’s wrong?”

Sansa shakes him off. “Nothing.”

Might as well go all in, Theon figures, so he goes ahead and ‘so the penny drops’ it. “Are you jealous?”

“Of what?”

Oh, for gods’ sake, she doesn’t even do him the courtesy of that innocent doe-eyed blink of hers. He’s never been so insulted in all his life.

 _“Sansa,”_ he says, in that exasperated tone she tends to reserve for him.

But of course it is _her_ tone, so Sansa does him one better when she says right back, _“Theon.”_

That’s fine, too. He won’t be deterred. He strokes her arm again, this time upwards towards her neck, where he feels the jump of her pulse when he rubs his thumb there.

“You know,” Theon tells her, leadingly, hoping she’ll take the bait and talk to him.

“Do I?” Sansa replies almost loftily, but she trips up and trembles when he swipes his thumb over her pulse again.

 _Note: Sansa seems to like attention behind her ear._ Theon hopes he can experiment with this development later — sooner rather, and preferably with his mouth.

He keeps looking at her, a know-it-all little grin on his face that could rival Bran’s, just because Theon wants to goad her into telling him she’s jealous and why she’s got reason to be, because she’s not going to tell him unless he pisses her off enough.

Sansa huffs. “Stop looking at me like that.”

“Tell me what’s wrong.”

“I _just said_ it’s nothing.”

“Come on, Sansa.” He pinches her waist, and she slaps his hand away. “Don’t be upset.”

“I’m not,” she insists, unconvincingly because Sansa’s not much for lying when she’s truly bothered. “I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

“Tell me you’re jealous or I’m knocking you into the water.”

She hits him with a glare. _“Don’t.”_

“What’s wrong?”

“At the moment, _you_.”

This isn’t working. Theon decides to take a different tack.

“Well if that’s how it is, that’s fine, then.” Theon makes to take a step back, but then in a blink he steps forward instead, catches her ‘round the waist, and spins them both off the dock into the water with a whoop, a scream, and a _splash!_.

That should do the trick.

When they surface, Sansa sputtering and Theon smirking, it’s with her curled all the way around him. She’s never been too fond of swimming, whereas he comes alive in the water, so this isn’t a particularly surprising turn of events, but it’s got Theon right chuffed. Her arms around his shoulders, legs around his waist, stuck on him like a sea urchin, though she’d hate that description so he doesn’t say it aloud, as A) he values his life and B) he’d like to keep her right where she is.

He tries to keep his wits about him, but it’s a hard thing when she jolts, presses closer, every time a stray patch of seaweed tickles her leg.

(It’s not the only _hard thing_ , either, as the case may be.)

Sansa shakes the ocean from her eyes, and whips Theon in the face with her hair in the process. He might deserve it.

“Why did you _do that_?” she demands, like she truly can’t believe it of him when really it’s the most on-brand Theon Greyjoy move.

“Told you why,” he says, still smirking, but his voice is breathless as he holds her close, both of them bobbing in the gentle lap of the waves. “You gonna talk to me now? Might as well, when you’re using me like an inflatable floatie and all.”

“Do you plan on letting me drown otherwise?”

“I might think about it.”

Of course he definitely won’t be thinking about it, first and foremost because he’s not a psychopath, and also because right now he’s got his arms around her waist and one hand just underneath her bum as he keeps her up above the water. He’s not about to give that up just to win an argument. In fact, he’s going to start arguments specifically to lose them from here on out.

“You’re insufferable,” she sighs, irritable enough that he can tell her self-possession has finally given way to self-consciousness.

“Aren’t I always, love?” Gently, lazily, Theon kicks them further away from the docks. A little more privacy, though they’re still out in the open, but it’s easier to enjoy the way her thighs tighten around his hips when he’s not so paranoid that everyone’s watching them.

“Today especially.”

“Yeah, well…” He slides his hand up, and doesn’t miss the way Sansa’s muscles tighten or how she wriggles against him when he squeezes her thigh. “You’ve been driving me mad all day, too, doll.”

She’s toying with the hair at the nape of his neck — Theon wonders if she notices, or if it’s absentminded — where it’s curling from length and even more so with the ocean water.

“You just don’t like my music,” she says, soft and just a bit grumbly.

That’s enough of a segue for him. It’s about time he says something, anyway, so —

“I don’t like what you’re wearing, either.”

Sansa blinks, surprised, surely, at this sharp turn in the conversation. “What?”

“What you’re wearing,” Theon reiterates. “I hate it. It’s been driving me fucking wild, I haven’t had my head on right since this morning.”

To emphasize his point, and just because he wants to, he snaps the waistband of that god damn, drive-me-crazy yellow bikini against her stomach. She yelps, and disentangles herself long enough to slap his shoulder, before she’s hanging all over him again.

“Stop trying to piss me off,” Sansa calls his game, but she’s trying not to laugh. A difficult feat, since Theon’s chuckling and Sansa’s never been the sort who can stop laughing if someone else is.

“What, because I’ve barely been able to resist you all day?”

“Oh, you’ve done fine for yourself.”

Theon snorts, grins, kicks them back a little further into the surf. “Tell that to my blood pressure.”

Her answering smile is worth a thousand overwrought, introspective, out-of-hand beach trips. And then she tugs on his hair again, too, which quite frankly would be worth drowning over.

“Is this what you wanted to talk about, then?” she asks.

“Sort of.” Theon spins them around a couple of times. Her legs clench around his hips when he does it, and he has to bite back a groan. “But I expected — for the thousandth time, by the way — that you’d tell me why you were so jealous first.”

She sighs, long and low and slightly aggravated; Theon doesn’t know if it’s with him or herself, but he can fix it either way, if she’ll let him.

Sansa shrugs, a little, listless thing, and replies — sheepishly, too, Theon’s sure he’s never heard Sansa _sheepish_ before — “Don’t I have reason to be?”

“No.” He doesn’t know why his voice comes so hoarse or why he can’t breathe or why he holds her tighter when she asks. He swallows his nerves, shakes his head. “No, you don’t.”

That makes her smile again. Just a beat, until she shakes her head, too, and sighs, “I was stupid.”

“No,” Theon insists once more. “You were wrong, yeah, but not… You’re the cleverest person I know. Not stupid at all. I’m sorry I upset you.”

“Don’t apologize. I just, I panicked and it’s got everything to do with me and nothing with you, really.” She’s playing with his hair still, and he thinks it might be intentional. She’s been watching the way his curls twist around her fingers, but now she’s looking him straight in the eye and Theon really does think he could drown in hers, so much deeper and steadfastly blue and and _and_ —

“I just tend to expect the worst from the men I fancy.”

There’s another rapid raucous drum solo happening in Theon’s head, so damn _loud_ and intense that he can’t be sure that what he heard was what he really heard, or if holding a slick, half-naked Sansa so close, hands all over each other, has (rightfully) made him lose his mind.

It takes him a moment to think through the possibilities. As he’s not much for _thinking_ at the moment — Sansa just broke his brain, after all, the bloody minx — so in the end he has to ask to be sure, anyway.

“You fancy me?”

The smile Sansa gives him then is wry, but no less genuine for it. “I thought that went without saying.”

“Say it, anyway.”

“I fancy you.”

So what he heard really _was_ what he heard, then.

“Good,” he says, like the sandpaper-mouth idiot he is. “That’s good. Because… yeah. Same. Thank you.”

Now she laughs, and she doesn’t try to stop it. “Oh, swoon.”

“For fuck’s sake, I’m _processing_.”

She’s still laughing. The sound fills Theon up even further with this uncontainable feeling he’s somehow contained, anyway, this irrepressible thing he’s had for her for who-knows-how-long, because it had snuck up on him in such a way that one day it was simply _there_ , as if he’d never lived without it. Perhaps he never had.

And now, he doesn’t have to.

“Don’t laugh,” he says, even as she continues to do so. “You’ll make me think you’re enjoying my torment so much I’ll have to accuse you of emotional sadism.”

That only makes her laugh harder. Theon gets it, he does, he’s well and truly _giddy_ , but he’s got plans for them.

The kissing kind of plans.

“I’m sorry,” Sansa manages through another stream of giggles. Her face is sun-kissed and flush with a pleasure Theon sorely wants to intensify. “I’m just…”

 _Happy_ , he imagines she was about to say, but she never gets to it.

Because he can’t stand it anymore, being so close and not doing what he’s been dying to do for ages and now he _can_. So his hand slides over her arse because fuck it, that’s why, and he hauls her up against his chest, so that she’s hovering slightly over him, so that his gaze is level with her lips, dripping with salt and sea and sun, and he murmurs in words dripping with _want_ —

“I won’t be able to kiss you properly if you keep laughing at me.”

That shuts her up. All she says is a simple _“Oh,”_ and then her wet hands are smoothing down the back of his neck, over his shoulders. Her legs tighten around him and she presses closer, like she wants to feel the hardness that must’ve been apparent this whole time, and Theon can’t help it all over again, he thrusts upwards, just a little, just _enough_ to incite her breathy moan, and he catches the sound when it breaks against his own lips. Not touching yet, not drinking her all in, but near enough that he can almost taste the coconut rum cocktail she’d drunk earlier.

There’s hardly any space between them now, nothing but the gentle lap of the water between them, around them, like there’s no one else at the beach _but_ them, and Theon’s willing to pretend so long as Sansa is, and he’s about to get this started, he’s _just about_ to kiss her —

“Oi!” The shout comes not too far off, and far too familiar. “What’re you two doing out there?”

“Oh, you have _got_ to be fucking kidding me,” Theon mutters. He and Sansa exchange a look, a summer thunderstorm of feelings that are going to have to wait, it seems. “Give me just a moment, love.”

He loosens his hold on her, but doesn’t release her completely because he never plans to do something so stupid as _that_ now. It’s only so he can drop her down a bit, so he can see over her shoulder, and —

_Fuck._

Sure enough, standing on the edge of the same dock from which Theon and Sansa had made their impromptu leap, wearing ridiculous floral-print swim trunks, an even more ridiculous sunhat, and a frown, is another familial interruption Theon hadn’t counted on.

Bloody buggering Robb cockblock Stark.


	4. the nuisance of a family

_This is bullshit_ , Theon thinks for the hundredth time in about fifteen minutes.

Fifteen minutes he could have better spent with his mouth on Sansa — her lips, her neck, her tits, maybe get his head buried between her legs in the back of his van, whatever, he’s not picky — and his hands mapping every dip and curve of her sun-soaked sea-drenched body, committing it to memory even though he plans to _re_ commit it every chance she’ll grant him, and the way she’s looking at him tells him she’ll let him try _all the time_.

Just not _this_ time, because now Robb’s shown up out of the blue and ruined everything.

Maybe that’s a sign that this shouldn’t happen, Theon thinks worriedly for about half a second. But then he watches Sansa readjust her bikini top, snapping the straps against her shoulders, and he thinks that’s much more likely a sign that it _should_ , because now he’s got a glimpse of her burgeoning tan line and he wants to lick it all the way around. And that’s just the sort of destiny Theon prefers to put his faith in.

Now fate’s thrown a wrench in his plans, but at least his best mate’s none the wiser. Overprotective asinine dramo ho that he is, Robb Stark is also incredibly easy to fool. Willful ignorance most like, as he’d taken the explanation that Theon and Sansa were ‘just swimming’ in uncharacteristically good stride.

Bran snorts at that. Theon would hurl the beach ball at his face, but he’s learned his lesson so settles on a glare instead — which is no better, because then Bran winks at him, the cheeky bastard.

“I thought you were working!” Sansa says to her eldest brother, somehow just as cool and collected as ever by the time she and Theon reach the shore, as if he hadn’t just been all but dry humping her in public, good _god_. “Did you skive off?”

“Or did they finally sack you for being such a shite park ranger?” Theon suggests, because he’s a bit pissed, alright.

Behind Robb, Arya cackles and adds, with an oddly spot-on inflection to her accent, “Hey, Boo-Boo! Let’s go get us a pic-a-nic basket!”

_“One time,”_ Robb groans. “You throw a picnic basket at a bear _one time_ and you never hear the end of it. I probably saved lives that day, you know, but is anybody talking about _that_?”

“No,” Rickon answers the rhetorical question, because doing so is among his favourite things.

“Whatever.” When Robb shakes his head, his ridiculous sunhat flops about like a fish out of water. “Anyway, Jon swapped me weekends so he could go see Ygritte at the next.”

_Brilliant_ , Theon thinks. At the rate things are going, Jon bloody Snow’s going to get laid before he does. Just another reason to kick his arse later.

The day doesn’t get better from there. Not for Theon, anyway, though most everyone else seems to be having a good time.

But of course they’re all having a good time. Neither Bran nor Rickon are hopelessly in love with anybody, so they can enjoy their lives without much fuss whatsoever. Rickon’s collecting seashells to take home and make jewelry out of to sell on his Etsy shop, and Bran’s wearing those stupid heart-shaped sunglasses now as he suns himself with one of those trifold tanning boards, and occasionally sips a drink from a plastic coconut.

The height of goddamn luxury.

Meanwhile, Arya and Gendry can go at it whenever they like, though currently Arya’s having too much fun trouncing his arse in beach volleyball. A one-on-one game, because this shite’s basically their foreplay and absolutely no one else wants to get involved.

Robb is _engaged_ , somehow, and to a doctor, no less, who’s out breadwinning because not everyone’s got a trust fund to live off. And obviously Robb shares the trust fund with his beloved — _honestly_ , that’s what he calls her — but Talisa likes to work, saving lives and drinking terrible coffee and all that. She’s not here today, but all the same it still is what it is and Theon can’t help but feel bitter that Robb hasn’t got to deal with an older brother-slash-best mate who is constantly _in the way_.

It would be fine, probably, if Theon didn’t have better things to do. Sansa things. Doing things to Sansa. Sansa doing things to him. Doing things _to each other_. And then perhaps possibly proposing to her at the end of it, because Theon figures he’d best lock her down fast.

Sansa, at least, takes pity on him, likely because she’s just as frustrated, though she does a markedly better job at hiding it as she has tremendous powers of self-control. Theon, however, is a mess, even when Sansa wriggles back into her cover-up. That cover-up hasn’t helped all day. Now all he can think about is telling her to leave it on when he fucks her.

If he ever gets the chance.

“Something going on there?” Robb asks, all of two seconds after Sansa excuses herself to have a cocktail with Arya.

“Going on where?” Theon feigns ignorance, because there’s no way Robb could _know_ , but then —

“You and Sansa. Anything I should know?”

_Ah, fuck._

“Probably nothing you particularly want to know,” Theon says before he can stop himself. He’s had a couple of beers and a lot of sun and more Sansa than he’d ever actually hoped of having, and he’s tired of pretending that he’d never hoped for it in the first place.

“Well, Jesus, man,” Robb says, all incredulity, though not as dramatic as Theon feared. “How long’s it been going on?”

“Uh, today, I s’pose? I dunno, you sort of interrupted us right in the middle of things.”

“Oh, fuck you.”

Theon chucks a cheese puff at him, which Robb catches deftly between his teeth. Goddamn Starks are all so _coordinated_ , it’s maddening.

“I’ll talk to her about it once I get rid of you lot, alright?”

“Talk to her?” Robb echoes, like he doesn’t believe him. “Or _impugn her honor_?”

_There’s_ the drama, then.

“I’ll impugn whatever she likes,” he replies, deadpan and serious. “And there’s not a thing you can do about it.”

Robb snorts, and shoves more cheese puffs into his mouth like an overeager toddler (which is essentially what Robb is when it comes to snack foods). “Fucking disgusting, mate.”

“Says the guy talking ‘round a fistful of cheese puffs, but alright.”

And that, astonishingly, is that.

Theon’s surprised, but can’t say he minds avoiding the overprotective big brother schtick. Then again, Robb’s already cockblocked him for the better part of the day, so that’s probably the price he pays in exchange for not being subjected to the _‘how dare you do this to my sister’_ lecture, because he hasn’t yet had the chance to do much of anything at all.

When he thinks about it like that, Theon reckons he would’ve preferred the lecture.

The afternoon wears on, hot and loud, drenched in sweat and sunscreen and ocean water. Robb takes Sansa aside for a chat, which must be good news, because afterwards he shoots Theon an enthusiastic thumbs-up and Sansa is smiling — shaking her head, rolling her eyes, but _smiling_ when she looks at him.

So maybe things aren’t such bullshit, after all. (Except that Theon still really, desperately wants to kiss her, but he’s _getting there_ , alright?)

The sun’s bright in that blinding sort of way in the half-hour before it sets by the time they’re packing up the van to leave. All covered in sand and salt and the sticky sheen of tequila Rickon had spluttered everywhere because he’s no good at shots.

Robb stands idly by, twirling his keys around his finger and looking between the VW and his own car — lost in thought, by the looks of it, but Theon often jokes that Robb hasn’t got enough of them to start with to get lost in.

“You know…” Robb pauses, like he’s still weighing the pros and cons of those thoughts he’s having. “I’ve got to pop by Mum and Dad’s, anyway, I’ve got just about all their tupperware, so I can take Bran and Rickon with me. Gendry’s is on the way as well, reckon Arya’s staying with him since they keep snogging right in front of me like anybody wants to see that —”

“I kissed him, like, one time today,” Arya replies dully.

“The _disrespect_ —”

“Oh my god.” Arya rolls her eyes, then elbows Theon and winks at Sansa. “I see what’s going on, no need to tell me twice.”

Theon sees what’s going on, too, but he hardly dares believe it, because that would mean…

Bloody buggering Robb _wingman_ Stark.

There’s something tremendously unnatural about that. Like if Theon accepts it to be true, there will eventually be some major cosmic price to pay but, fuck it, he’ll do it if it means he gets Sansa alone in his van.

(Wait.

No.

That sounds terrible.

But he knows what he means, and thank the gods he didn’t say such a weird fucking thing aloud.

Anyway.)

Hugs and smacking kisses are exchanged as goodbyes, and a few too many knowing looks for Theon’s liking but, ah well, so everybody knows and they’re sure to take the piss later, but at least they’re keeping their mouths shut at present. A sort of honeymoon period that will likely last ‘til tomorrow morning, but he’ll take what he can get.

Right now, he gets him and Sansa alone in a car together for the trip home. Or, rather, the trip back to his, because like hell is he dropping her off and pretending like nothing ever happened.

Ahahahahaha.

No.

On the way back, he’s able to put his hand on her thigh without worrying over what anyone else might say about it. Sansa smiles when he does, runs her thumb along his knuckles and keeps the boy band playlist down to a reasonable volume. She’s still wearing that damnable cover-up, though, so it’s pretty much on par with the drive earlier, except this time Theon knows she wants him the same way he wants her and, yeah, honestly, that makes all the difference.

“So what’d Robb say to you?” he asks, when they’ve exhausted their jokes and small talk more than halfway home. “Figured it must be about, erm, _us_ , right?”

There’s a grin toying with the edges of her pretty, cherry lip-balm mouth. “Oh, it was.”

“And?”

“ _And_ ,” Sansa echoes, in that way she does when she’s teasing him, all exaggerated and near-giggling, “he said that he knows I make you happy, but he wanted to know if you make me happy, too.”

Theon waits, drumming his fingertips against the steering wheel as he drives, while the other hand takes up a beat against Sansa’s thigh.

_“Aaaaaaand?”_

“I told him the truth,” she says simply, like there’s nothing else to it. “That even when we’re bothering the hell out of each other, like today, I’m never happier with anybody else.”

That does it. For one thing, he’s waited long enough; for another, that was the most romantic bloody thing he’s ever heard, so what the hell else was he meant to do but what he does?

Theon pulls over, hits the brakes, and undoes his seatbelt so he can lean over and capture Sansa’s mouth in a searing kiss that rivals the sun that had been beating down on them all day.

She doesn’t even get a chance to ask what he’s doing, he does it so fast and she’s got her answer before the question can even fully cross her mind.

His lips coax hers apart, or maybe it’s the other way ‘round, or maybe it’s both of them, whichever way, Theon groans when he gets a taste of her tongue — all rum and something fruity, and her mouth tastes like ChapStick, and she smells like the beach and she feels like — like — oh, fuck if he knows, she just feels _good_.

They’re a tangle of limbs that’s near-impossible to undo simply because they don’t want to, but if Theon wants to get her off someplace other than his shoddy old VW, he needs to get his head on straight and take Sansa home.

He’s an _adult_ , for god’s sake, he’s got an actual home he can take her to.

“Back to mine?” he pants against her lips when they break apart, but only far enough so he can get the words out.

“Yes, please,” she pants right back, and laughs all breathy when he smacks his hands against the steering wheel and groans again, pitifully now.

“Don’t _beg_  me like that, I’ve still got to drive, damn it.”

The drive’s not much to deal with, after that. It’s torture, sure, but Theon’s used to that by now; he hangs ‘round Sansa enough to be well-versed in how to deal with such lascivious torment. But it’s the final hurdle in a long line of obstacles, so it doesn’t feel so trying when there’s a light at the end of this sad, lonely tunnel he’s been living in.

Traffic’s long since let up, so it’s only a quarter of an hour ‘til they get to his. There’s much fumbling with seatbelts and door handles and keys in the lock, but they get there. It takes a moment, because he can’t stop kissing her and she can’t stop kissing him back, but they _get there_ , and it’s all the better for the kissing, anyway.

They stumble through the front door, tripping out of sandals, Theon’s hands impatiently pushing up the hem of Sansa’s cover-up. Teeth clashing, lungs bursting with shallow breaths and more laughter than they’ve got the breath to spare. He grips her thighs and hauls her up around his hips, just like he’d done in the water, and carries her down the short entryway, through the lounge…

A few walls are bumped along the way, but that’s to be expected, and she only kisses him harder to stave off the pain in his shoulders whenever he walks blindly into something he should know is there, but all things considered he hardly remembers his own name.

All he can think is _Sansa Sansa Sansa_ , and she’s all he wants on his mind, besides.

Somehow, they make it down the corridor to his bedroom — _somehow_ because Theon had strongly considered stopping by the couch or the kitchen table or any number of walls, really, but there’s time enough for all that later.

He’d like to have her in his bed first; he wants his sheets to smell like her.

They tumble onto his nest of unmade duvets — he’s got _so_ many, because sometimes Sansa stays over on the couch and he wants to keep extra blankets for her, but god damn if he doesn’t like to be a toasty warm burrito whenever he hasn’t got to leave his bed — and Theon kisses her harder, deeper, as she’s sinking into his mattress.

She tugs at his hair, he kisses down her neck, to that spot behind her ear he’d noted earlier and now he can examine all night if he likes. His hips roll into hers and hers roll up to meet him, and he _knows_ he’s got to get them out of these swimsuits for comfort alone.

But it feels so good, thrusting against her and catching her gasps of pleasure in his mouth, twisting his hands in the sheets as he tries to keep this at a steady pace, but —

Fuck it. He can’t keep this up.

He snaps the band of her swim bottoms again, the way that makes her hips jump. “Can I take these off you, love?”

She hesitates, and for a moment Theon worries that he’s gone too far, too fast, that he’s done something wrong, but then…

“Maybe a shower first?” she suggests. She tugs at his hair some more, and there’s _nothing_ he wouldn’t do if she asked for it. “Or during. But I can’t imagine that I —”

“Stop,” he instructs before she can say it. Sansa’s not self-deprecating often, but when she is, it breaks his heart because, simply, none of it’s true and yet she believes it. “I know what you’re doing, and there’s not a thing wrong with you. I don’t care that we were sweating on the beach all day, I want you, and I want you whichever way you decide, alright?”

That smile — her _fucking smile_ — is more than an even exchange for every last familial interruption they’ve endured all day.

“You’re uncommonly sweet for a man, did you know that?”

“And you’re strange at compliments, but I’ll take it.” Theon kisses her nose. “Come on, then, let’s get you naked in my shower.”

Sansa laughs, and he thinks he likes that sound even more than her moans of pleasure.

Or — alright, one of them is certainly a close second to the other, but it’s hard to choose when he’s got her moaning, too.

All the pent-up energy of the day has reached its boiling point, and Theon can’t stand to wait anymore. Nor can Sansa, so far as he can tell, because she’s stripping him out of his clothes as quickly as he is hers. They stop only to share eager, sloppy kisses, for Theon to switch on the hot water and back her up into the shower, against the wall.

The kisses go deeper, slower, as the water beats over their heads, streams down their bodies, gently moving against one another. He runs his fingers through her hair, and hers trace patterns down his back. He shudders and she sighs into his mouth, and he sweeps his tongue inside so that he might taste every single one of those sighs that he pulls from her.

Theon’s hand slips down, between her legs. “This alright?” he murmurs into her lips. When she nods, he smirks a bit and slips down lower. “Good.”

Slowly, he strokes his fingers over her, rubbing soothing circles over her cunt, going further with every press, until one finger’s inside and he’s working his thumb over her clit.

She’s breathing heavy, clutching his hair, and he’s no more composed as he pants into the side of her neck, sucking marks behind her ear as he works her up and _up_ and the bathroom steams and her toes curl.

_“Sansa —”_ Theon plants haphazard kisses everywhere he can reach, driving himself mad as he pushes another finger inside of her, as she moans and arches against him. He curls his fingers, strokes his thumb over her clit. “Come for me, love, _please_ —”

He’s broken, he’s wrecked, he wants her so much —

_“Theon.”_ She gasps his name, over and over, high and sharp, nails dug into his back as her muscles tighten, pulse, as she melts and drags her mouth across his.

A shiver goes down her body, Theon can feel it, and she slumps down the wall with it. He holds her up, pulling slow, easy kisses from her now, hips flush with hers, his cock hard and wanting her but he’s going to _wait_ until —

“Bed.” Sansa’s voice as is hoarse as his throat feels. Her hands are slick and hot over his skin. “Take me back to bed and keep me there ‘til we’re dead tired of each other.”

“Oh my god” — Theon can’t help his chuckle, even as he can’t help but kiss her more as the water cools — “if you think I’m ever getting tired of you, love, have I got _news for you_ —”

He laughs harder when Sansa does, too, and they keep right on tasting those shuddering joyous breaths, keep right on running their hands everywhere they can get — hair and waists and hips, legs and backs and every place where their pulse points thrum — until the water runs too cold to be ignored.

But, as it happens, wrapping up in a toasty warm burrito in his bed with Sansa is worlds better than doing it on his own.

_No surprises there_ , Theon thinks, and then he thinks of nothing but her as he sinks into the bed, taking Sansa with him as her lips anchor him to the here and now, with her, where he’s meant to be.

 

* * *

 

**ROBB** : No one’s heard from either of you in sixteen hours  
I’m beginning to regret allowing this

**THEON** : yeah well  
i regretted you knowing about this before you actually knew about it  
esp if this is the way you’re going to be about it

**ROBB** : How am I being????

**THEON** : you’re INTERRUPTING

**ROBB** : ???? it’s been ????? sixteen hours????

**THEON** : and i’ve been wanting to do this for A THOUSAND YEARS alright  
we’ve got a lot of ground to cover

**ROBB** : Stop being facetious

**THEON** : excuse me  
facetious WHOMST  
i’ll have you know, i take this VERY seriously  
just ask sansa

**ROBB** : _typing…_

**THEON** : on second thought, don’t  
not right now, anyway  
we’re busy

**ROBB** : STOP

**THEON** : never

**ROBB** : _typing…_

**THEON** : i will however pause  
for eight and a half minutes  
but give me another hour first

**ROBB** : I **MEANT** STOP TELLING ME THIS SHIT  
BUT ALSO  
WHAT DO YOU MEAN, ‘give me another hour first’ ????  
YOU’VE HAD SIXTEEN  
WHAT HAVE YOU BEEN DOING

**THEON** : _typing…_

**ROBB** : NO  
WAIT  
I DON’T WANT TO KNOW

**THEON** : i have been  
rocking.  
her.  
world.

**ROBB** : _typing…_

**THEON** : and vice-fucking-versa  
heeey-oooohhh !!!!

**ROBB** : WHAT DID I **JUST SAY** ???

 

(So, as it turns out, Robb gets his chance to be his usual over-the-top self, and Theon winds up getting the lecture, too. But when he gets back home to find Sansa waiting for him, he figures it’s worth it.

From the nuisance of a family to the traffic jam and the boy bands, right down, even, to the offensively yellow bikini… Well, Theon thinks he can handle the ramifications of being with Sansa, because he’s _with her_ now, and that had been the entire point.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: yes yes i ended **another** fic via text but oh my GOD it’s just so much easier okay DON’T JUDGE ME

**Author's Note:**

> a/n: yes there really is a ‘boy bands save lives’ playlist. i’ll link it here if i can figure it out, otherwise you can hit me up on tumblr @dancemajicdance for it.


End file.
